


To Cry Dream Logic

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inception_kink, F/M, Gunplay, Missing Scene, POV Projection, Projections, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>By the time she passes through the partygoers and rests her hand on Saito's shoulder she is sure of three things: Dom is here to steal from Saito, she has to— has to on the level a mother has to protect her children, she cradles this command like so— master everything about Saito, and she is beautiful.</i>
</p><p>Mal does what she almost wants. Saito cooperates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Cry Dream Logic

The first conscious thought she owns is anger.

She's stalking through the hallways of a mansion, ornate in period detail and smoke she doesn't yet recognize. Something in her knows that she's a woman created and not a woman born. Information dumps into her head slice by slice, its previous possessor having bothered with no more than perfunctory organization, and it takes until she's staring into the waves that she recognizes the sea as a sea. The concept of it is dotted with unconnected tidbits. Her creator probably found the connotations of a sea mere amusements to collect: a jump, a death, an ocean endless. Similarly herself: huge round eyes, as someone else sees her; her collar, it and the wing bodice of her dress caging her breasts; her hips, and a gun tucked so tight to her thigh she feels like it would skid right into her if she leans forward, but she doesn't know why these matter.

So as soon as she has a notion of self, she is _pissed_ at how she was made. The waves roll underneath. Her mind compels her to look, not empty but incomplete, a quilt badly stitched plus five holes and a tear, until a man steps up behind her and no, there's no dawning light in his eyes because he already decided who she's supposed to be, and the same force that makes her watch the water wheels her to him. It was you, she thinks. Where she couldn't place the artifacts in the building (Arthur, her brain insists without context, Arthur will know and don't you worry about it) the fact that this man made her is so deep in her she wants to claw it out and shove it down his gullet.

"If I jumped, would I survive?"

His eyelids flutter, as though he's surprised she will follow a script he designed. "Perhaps." 

She tags behind him without choice. Goes into the mansion dogging his footsteps, comments on the taste of a man she's only now starting to process. Arthur, her brain insists, Arthur likes Bacon and visits a tailor whose bell must tinkle five times before the door opens, Cobb berates Arthur often and once someone who is supposed to be her shot him through his arm, from near when he trusted her. This last thing is a sensation, a crawly joy, not the shade of a memory and she curls instinctively around this thought that belongs wholly to her. Shoot from very close.

Dom Cobb touches her ankle. His hand is warm, his expression almost. "Please stay here, Mal," he says. "I'll come back for you, after I get free of Saito." He unreels more rope and jumps out toward the sea.

It occurs to her, draped across the chair, that she wants something from Saito with a desperation that threatens to turn her inside out, and she has no idea why. She considers Dom's words. He needs to be free of Saito, and she needs to hurt Dom somehow for making her so defective, unable to search in her own head. The desire to help anyone against Dom melds easily with her own inexplicable desire to help Saito. She clasps the back of the chair for a moment, considering. Then she wraps herself around the wood and hurls it at the window.

And, well. Nothing else for a half-realized projection to do among the ornaments she can't identify. 

She walks out and finds Saito.

+

By the time she passes through the partygoers and rests her hand on Saito's shoulder she is sure of three things: Dom is here to steal from Saito, she has to— has to on the level a mother has to protect her children, she cradles this command like so— master everything about Saito, and she is beautiful. Someone tries to catch her waist as she shoves by. She smiles at him, feeling generous in the knowledge that she could kill him but she has no space for anything but her want and her anger; and there are side looks, double takes, a murmur and hand gesture too well-shaped to be innocent. The look of her lurks inside. She knows what impression she leaves as she slides up to Saito and leaves no room between him and the crowd. Her dress brushes her back, fine and scratchy, and when she leans into him its neckline dips, revealing more of overpale skin over indigo. 

I am not these contrasts in life, she thinks. Of this I am assured. But dark and light is how he made me. Saito bends himself a bit. His eyes sweep over the perimeter of dress on skin, and she thinks, for you I can be stone and fire.

He steps back but he turns toward her first. She treasures that little betrayal in Saito. "I have some knowledge about your dinner guests you'll want to know," she says, and of course he nods at her like he's expecting her, not the way Dom observes her too afraid to come close. Gratification floods through her like rage.

\+ 

I want to know everything, she says to herself. To Saito she says, "Let's go outside." He inclines his head and follows her along the indescribable corridors. A minute later they stop in front of a window; or rather, she stops moving, except for a swing of her arm to stop Saito as well, and he turns all the way so they're facing each other chest to chest for the first time. Saito tries to maintain eye contact even though his pupils are dilating and his intentions are obvious. She takes in the nagajuban outlining the sharp hard V of his throat and is almost happy that Dom caricatured her into something hungry and angry. She is something, when she slips her fingers onto his neck, at which this man must stare, his throat working, ignoring the danger her maker represents.

A thought muscles into the head that she cannot control. Dream logic is at work. She strokes his cheek—

He draws back. While his shoulders straighten and his feet spread and his head jerks up, Saito visibly closes off to her. He's the consummate businessman, married and successful, examining yet another pretty girl at a party who wants to be more than a pretty girl, and it, it, he looks so trapped by how he's constructed himself. No one should have to fear that.

"You offered to tell me something of interest to me, Miss...?"

"There's a man here trying to make off with an inconsequential part of your fortune." She ignores the question. "You've—" She hasn't any information about what Dom has done since she was formed. "Seen him. White, sandy hair, blue eyes, earnest face. He won't come away with anything important," she finishes, and of this last part she is as sure as the gunmetal strapped to her leg, slick with sweat.

"Inconsequential and unimportant to whom? You have not gifted me a name."

She grabs his shoulders and shakes him. "Why do you need to know?" In less than an hour of existence she's already aware that questions of identity are painful. Maybe the color in her face warns him to twist away because surely he can't hear how his bland statement shortens her breath. The anger digs her fingernails into his suit, and she's no longer certain who it's directed at, only his hiss in response, and the way he can't shake his eyes from hers even as he tries to wriggle out of her grasp. The anger uncurls one hand and lays it on her belly and crooks a finger, and slashes her dress open from hip to ankle as she lifts her leg. The gun comes out. It's easy, the matter of a second or two. Saito's face tautens.

"I think it would be more," he says, "secure." He extends his hand, gently takes her fingers off the gun and feels around the safeties, still staring at her. "Could I place this somewhere for you, in the interim?" he asks as if it is routine courtesy to take her loaded weapon and hold it behind his back where she cannot reach it. It could very well be; her mind isn't done slotting what Cobb cared to give her about Saito into their places on his stomach, his Adam's apple, his eyes black and alive and the processing occurring behind them.

"Yes," she says. "Please."

"What were we to discuss then?" He smiles. Maybe he is a demon, always smiling. Maybe it's what makes him powerful enough that Dom needs her likeness and her fury to match him.

Maybe it's how he knows what she will do before she knows it herself, why he, studiously not seeing her naked thighs, tilts his head to the right angle for Mal to lick right into him. She bites his lip as his head falls back, likes the noise that totters out of him.

She grabs for his wrists. The gun clatters out of their hands, unnoticed; she wants more of him without speech or props. She wants to do something that is part Cobb (unclear) and part resentment (heavy) and finally a part all herself (heats the kiss as she dives back into his mouth). She wants to kill someone, the sketch of Arthur, Dom with him, and knows that she will cease to be when they're both gone. She wants to turn the man who licks at her, confident, into a weapon she can aim at them. She wants to pin him up and use him like atonement. She wants everything, and to be everything not this composite of unfinished pieces. Wants like rage.

She has Saito. She has him to ram into the wall, his muscles slack under her hands. Once she's caged him there with her elbows, she shoves her leg against his groin and discovers he's hard, rubs her bare skin against the wool and draws out a sound like the last breath before he plunges underwater. The dress splits further as she moves. He starts undoing his slacks, not afraid.

"You're not going to do that," she says, and efficiently strips him to flesh and moonshine. 

Her immediate impression is that he's too strong for her to force him against the wall, but he lets her arrange his tan skin along the wood of the walkway. He touches her breasts, his eyes very dark; leans down and licks a thin spittled line from her stomach to her collarbone as if in wonder, then slopes back again for her to do whatever she wants. Because you are beautiful, everything in his face and the suggestion of tremble in his thighs say, although he is silent.

So she steps closer although there is nowhere closer to step, presses herself against Saito even though there is no space at all left between them. Her nipples push at the firm muscle of his chest. Nothing else of her yields as she spreads his legs wide, feels his tailbone and his arse and down. She brushes her fingers lightly over his hole as he settles himself around the placement of her hand. She wonders if feels cold against the wall, but he's very warm. 

Warmer inside, too, as she slides a finger and another into him. They're dreaming, it just works— he ignites something in her from fingertips into bones, and she glides her fingers into him easy as a cry falls out of his mouth. The contractions around her are right. She adjusts her fingers, moves them around the rim of his hole, pinches his strained skin, rubs at the edges of that flesh all the way around, her fingers slipping in the lube and out of his hole and she plunges them in again, thrusts the middle deep and curls her index to its knuckle so she can keep drawing this voweled shudder out of Saito, circling his hole. Her nails are long enough to draw blood. Probably she has— his head flails back against the wall, the sound in his mouth goes louder and sharper. She feels almost vampiric, looking, feeding on the power shivering through him.

One kiss for the hollow of his throat. One kiss for his left nipple. One and two over his ribs, as her fingers find an angle that makes his head yawn back and his knees buckle and his breath hitch and she approaches him so again and again. He's— devastating, like that, and he lets out noise after noise like he's broken on her tongue when she lowers herself in one slow movement onto his cock. He tries to thrust his hips against her; she withdraws her fingers like a sailor retracting a safety float. For a moment he simmers at her but sprawls back against the wall again, lets her walk her fingers to his hole and push four down to her knuckles. 

She runs her tongue leisurely along the underside of his cock, waiting. He refuses to speak at first as she licks an inch at a time, never taking him all in and hollowing out her cheeks the way he has undoubtedly commanded others to do. She is a woman made. She'll make him wait until he tells her to fuck his control through the wall. Heat rises off of him like a season she'll never know. When she starts placing kissing like nibbles on the crown of his cock and her fingers quiet behind him, he gets the point. How to simplify things.

"My lady, _please_ ," he gasps.

"You starving bastard," she says, neutral.

She prods and nudges at him until he's in position: the businessman again, but his pupils wide, hair disarrayed, a sliver of tongue visible through an attempt at a smile. Her stomach flips at the pose, this was all her; _she made this happen_.

She sways toward him, to him arching and panting for her. Indulges her clit with circular little rubs up-down against his cock as he bites off swear words in four languages (Dom speaks only one of them, the distance in her notes, but she can read his tone like it's her native tongue), feels electricity tripping her newdreamt nerves with every syllable. When she judges that he's filthy loud enough to summon the residents of any real castle down on them, she lets him have a little more, barely opening herself on him, perhaps an inch of depth before she withdraws. He says something decidedly not French and splays his hands across her back, trying to reel her in.

The anger slams her hard and deep onto his cock. She quests for his mouth too and seals her lips over his and laughs bubbled as he tastes his own precome. She's slick, wet, tight in her cunt. He doesn't fill the holes in her knowing at all and she can't remember what is air, but he feels rich and rough inside her body as his hips stutter. Each stroke of herself descending on him catches her clit, enough that the pleasure drives her blind. So she doesn't look at Saito. His eyes are half-lidded anyways as he spasms inside her and jerks once harder than the others and shoots into her, intent on the way the moonlight creeps over the opposite wall and carves out her cheekbones.

He says something about her being so good it hurts. Then it's just that it hurts, but she feels the words slip into her ears and go nowhere as she slides onto and off him, not yet ready. The orgasm builds and builds and builds like a paradoxical space it can't be any wilder bigger she wants to shove it off of her into the wall of the castle of the dream it'll eat her where she rocks—

—and then it devours her until there's nothing left but the day she was born.

\+ 

and later she traces the gun barrel over his spine and his legs smeared with her come, to the arch of his foot where she rests it and sights upward as if to shoot into the straggled halo of his hair. He's tense as bowed glass. His anticipation follows the gun and his feet are quivering, quivering, quivering. He says, or it escapes from his mouth, "Yes, please," and she drags him upright and shoves his head against the wall. Puts the barrel to his mouth. He licks it like it's part of her; the round end of it disappears inside the open circle of Saito's lips and she could swear he's grinning over his own spit. His lips look no fuller wet and stretched, but she likes him so. It lets her pretend that he disapproves, that he bears a temper to match her own.

It's a dream. It doesn't matter. It's a dream and she swears she is the gun: she can taste his mouth, the convulsions of his tongue on herself, the soreness of his throat. She gets him to raise his hand and rides him to the rhythm of the gun fucking in and out.

After she comes and composes herself, braced along the wall, legs spread around him like a poster, she finds him hard again. A skate of her fingers along his cock has him inhaling and stopping without the outbreath. He offers the gun to her. A wobble and he manages to half-stand next to her, head pillowed on her breast.

"What shall we talk about next?" 

"It is so difficult to decide," she says. Turns him a quarter-turn so she can put the gun to his hole.

He ends up coming like a bullet. Spent, he sits and she lies with her head in his lap, and they talk about men she doesn't quite know and sneak enough significant looks at each other to last a dream.

+

"That is Arthur," she says, looking at a figure slim and uncomfortable in the party. They came back the way they left and found themselves on a balcony. "He shoots people, Saito."

"He shoots people."

"It's better than fabricating them." Her voice slips out calmer than she expected for the subject.

"We will shoot him, then?"

Their fingers tangle like crosshairs: centered not on Arthur but on the door to the room where her creator strides forward, still breathing. "I will," Mal says, kissing Saito's hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of [this](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/4946.html?thread=5769554#t5769554) kink meme fill. Wow, seeing this a few months later, so uneven @__@
> 
> All kinds of feedback are welcome and appreciated!


End file.
